


Pearl White and Pigment

by Madampringle



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Blood, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Golden Deer Route, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Golden Deer Route Spoilers, Gen, Grief/Mourning, I'm Sorry, Now we'll see how Lorenz reacted, We saw Dorothea react to Ferdinand's death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2021-01-04 23:16:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21205640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madampringle/pseuds/Madampringle
Summary: He lays it out beautifully, of course. Each pearl white cup and saucer positioned in the pristine order. There is sugar to the side, and yet he knows better. He has already prepared the blend perfectly, the sweetness and tartness balanced in just the right way.He knows this tea, he has never forgotten the way it should be made. There is no other he prepares so carefully, because no other holds such importance.





	Pearl White and Pigment

**Author's Note:**

> So...this is admittedly very sad, and while 99 percent of my works are going to be "Everybody Lives", I couldn't shake the thought of Dorothea reacting to the death of Ferdinand. All I could think about was how Lorenz would have reacted, seeing as he and Ferdinand seemed very, very close. Take it as shipping or platonic, either is fine but, yeah.
> 
> I suppose I just wanted to get some angst off my chest before I jump right back into the happy fluffy fun-time works I plan on doing. I love my two tea drinking nobles, but I can't get this out of my head until I write it down. So.
> 
> Just, please recruit Ferdinand as quickly as you can. Nothing hurts more than that stupid Bridge battle, if you do not. 
> 
> I'm sorry! ^^'

He lays it out beautifully, of course. Each pearl white cup and saucer positioned in the pristine order. There is sugar to the side, and yet he knows better. He has already prepared the blend perfectly, the sweetness and tartness balanced in just the right way.   
  
He knows this tea, he has never forgotten the way it should be made. There is no other he prepares so carefully, because no other holds such importance.   
  
He pours slowly, lest he disrupt the balance of flavors. Even pouring is an art form all in itself. The tilt of the wrist, the steadying of the pot. Too fast and tea would be wasted, the blend disrespected.  His hands are steady, as they always have been.   
  
The aroma is always the same, the amber-orange color always the same. The rising steam, always the same. And yet it is missing a crucial element. It is missing a final piece to make it perfect. Where is it? Where is that final piece, where is that last spark of light to brighten the scenery he has built so painstakingly, so perfectly?   
  
He lifts the porcelain, laden with delicate pigment in a twining line around the rim. The cup is worn with age and loving use. The pot has a minuscule chip from an accident that could have ignited a heart attack had he been to slow to catch it when it had nearly been thrust from his hands. His armor had punished the pot, dark plum metal snapping off a sliver of white from the rim.   
  
Any other tea-set, and he would have removed it from his presence, replaced imperfection with a new perfection.   
  
This tea-set though, this one could not ever be replaced. No other would replicate the taste and aroma and flavor and texture, heart and care and memories of the tea held within it. So he keeps the tiny imperfection and deems it perfect for its uniqueness. He runs his thumb once along the rim when he finishes pouring, and the cup across from him rests on an island of white, atop a tablecloth of rich violet.    
  
Orange would have been lovelier, and he realizes it the moment he starts, but he cannot change the tablecloth and he cannot change the procedures. He cannot disrupt the process, for the process would mean nothing if he did.   
  
He sits slowly, he is silent. All the words he wants to say die on his tongue. Dry, as if swollen. He has never had a problem speaking the thoughts that escaped his mind before. He is never known for anything less than honesty and vibrant expression, whether it be his status, or his ideals, or even his goddess awful hair from five years ago.   
  
Five years ago he meets this boy. He had always heard of his family, as he grew under his father’s descriptive words. But he then _meets_ this boy he has heard about. Five years ago, when his hair is a spectacle and he’s towering in his 18-year-old mass of long limbs and lanky statures, when he believes he will find a partner through trial and observation, or testing of the sort. When he sees the world with the rose hued vision of nobility without noticing the thorns he sprouts that sends people running away.   
  
He meets the only boy, the only person who says yes, without fail, to every invitation to tea he delivers. He meets this boy, and his hair is the same color as his eyes, and his eyes are the same color as the tea he teaches him how to brew. Perfectly, balanced with sweetness and tartness.    
  
This boy does not fear his thorns, and he pushes them aside and searches for the roses buried beneath, and settles beside them to brush at their petals and keep them from wilting.   
  
This boy is a noble too, and he is formal and honest. He wants for his people, and wants for his birthright. He is humorous, approachable. Misunderstood in a way that he understands. This boy in turn understands him, and each visit becomes brightened with that understanding, of the world, of duty and faith, of secrets and gossip. Of eachother.    
  
He pulls the teacup towards his mouth, resting the rim to his lips. The smell is as wonderful as it is numbing, and his tongue is still swollen, his mind even more so. He takes no sip, and lets it sit, white against his lips and orange beneath his eyes.   
  
This boy he meets, five years ago, sings his way into his heart the moment he promises to come back for more tea after the first taste he has. This boy returns bearing a gift of pearl white, with pigment twining the rims. There is tradition now, so quick and so sudden that it is as if it always had been. This gift is far better than the set he himself brings, far from the only home he has ever known amongst fields and roses and cattle. Amongst an Alliance, to rival this boy’s rich red Empire.   
  
And soon he thinks of how grand it would be, had this boy been the noble neighbor across the stream, tucked away within their vibrant land of lush life. If this boy need only ride for an hour to meet him for tea as an ally, and never an enemy.   
  
This boy...   
  
This boy’s favorite color is blue, because it reminds him of the of the morning sky when he goes riding. This boy has a tendency to flex his fingers when he is invested in a story, and he moves when he speaks, animating his bright retellings of the life he lives in the Empire. This boy thinks his father is not who he desires to be, a true noble with true morals. This boy is free of doubt, and he envies this boy as much as he feels entranced by every word he speaks.   
  
No. It is his voice too, that sways him like a leaf in a riverbed. The way he speaks, the light there, the optimism. This boy radiated an aura he had known all his life. Vibrant like fire, burning a path to the future.   
  
Oh this boy. He loved this boy. This boy becomes his greatest friend.   
  
And then this boy leaves. This boy becomes a man, and he himself becomes a man. They go to war, and they are men the moment they fight under the orders of others, kill for everyone besides themselves. This boy who becomes a man fights for a woman who strips him of his pride, his dignity, his future burned in a blazing path. She douses his flames and dangles his bright and vibrant hopes above him, taunting him, shaming him.   
  
She commands him to the bridge, miles across the river, sends him sailing in a tide of red and revolution against an army of gold and gallant. She sends this man across the stone, and while she sits upon her imperial throne, within her fortresses of fanatical ambition, he watches.   
  
He watches this man upon his steed, with hair strewn like flames in the wind, shining and familiar. He recognizes this man the moment he sees the edges of his chin, the curl of his locks, the tea-blend orange of his eyes. He knows this man, and his favorite color is blue. His fingers flex when he recites his stories, moves his body with his words. This man has lost his father but was never like him to begin with. This man, he no longer envies this man.   
  
This man is his friend, his greatest friend.   
  
The battle is swept away in a blur of effort and savagery, and the screams and roars die out with each passing moment. He fights under his leaders, he does what needs to be done. This is war, and war is unforgiving.   
  
But this man is his friend, his greatest friend.   
  
It takes three seconds. One to hear the confrontation, two to hear the battle cry.   
  
Three, to watch everything fall apart.   
  
_ One _   
  
_ Two _   
  
_Three_.   
  
That is all it takes.   
  
And the world slams still. And the battle simmers away. The sounds blend into silence, and the man falls from his steed. The fire snuffs out, and the light dims low, and there is no future now, for the man who loves the southern fruit blend, who loves blue and who never failed to say _“I would love to join you, my friend.”_   
  
The battle ends, and the bridge glows golden in the sun, and red runs under their feet, dripping into the river he dipped his toes into as a child off the valley paths. Some of it belongs to the man, and the red of his Empire bleeds from his heart. He falls still, and he is gone.   
  
And the tea is cold, and the sun is setting low. He has not consumed a drop. His tongue is swollen, and his throat is tight, and the stale scent of southern fruit makes him sick, and the orange brew looks red. Red, nothing but red. The memory fades away and there is nothing but cracked stone and a pristine bedroom, a tea set of pearl white, with pigment twined around the rims.   
  
The chair across from him, it is empty and will always be empty now. The light is gone, and the fire put out. The sun sinks low, and day is turning to night, and he knows it will never come back, not the way it was supposed to.   
  
This man was his friend, his greatest friend.   
  
Was.   
  
What a _lie_. What a _farce_. To promise a future of companionship, of ambitions of a brilliant future of peace and pleasure. What a _filthy lie_, that spills from their bloodstained lips as an Emperor of Flames yanks them through her rage of War, traps them together and forces them to tear at each other’s bodies and hearts. They are pawns, and perhaps they always have been. The King falls and the Queen leaves him without a second glance. And this choking Knight watches their wretched dance. He cannot reach them. He never can.   
  
The cup shakes in his fingers, and he cannot feel the chill of the now cold tea dribbling down his arm, spattering on the royal purple tablecloth, does not recoil in disgust because there is nothing but numbness and misery and mourning and fury in him now.   
  
Ferdinand is dead.   
  
He is _dead_, and he will _never_ drink this tea again.    
  
There is no future between them anymore. No vision of a noble collaboration, of Empire and Alliance, of happiness and prosperity. That future dies with Ferdinand von Aegir on that goddess damned bridge, and it burns a hole in his heart that will never heal.  The cup is stamped violently to the saucer, nearly chipping the pearl white, but he cannot hold this weight in his hands any longer. It crushes him, and he cannot carry it, he cannot. He is weak, and he always has been, but this...   
  
What shall be done, about this?   
  
One day he may forget the voice of his greatest friend. One day he will not be able to perfectly recall the color and shape of his eyes, the way his face tilts upwards when he speaks his stories, the way he speaks of his horses and of his confusion as to why Dorothea despises him so, the way he laughs and calls him his friend, his dearest friend.    
  
One day he may forget Ferdinand von Aegir, and the misery turns into fury, and his eyes burn hot.   
  
How _dare_ she. How _dare_ she corner his people, force their hands, rage a War and force them into her ambitions. How _dare_ she take his greatest friend away from him, and sit on her imperial throne, within her fortress. Hypocrite. _Coward_.   
  
His fingers curl into the tea stained cloth, and smoke curls between his fingers as his body blisters with blazes of fury and pain, and the magic in his veins, the crest in his chest, roils with rage at the woman and her castle of red that he wants to set aflame. Torch with fire, vibrant and orange, so she will suffer as he is, forced to see Ferdinand everywhere around her even when he cannot be touched or spoken to anymore.   
  
He wants Edelgard to burn, and he swears upon his greatest friend that he will make it so. She will _burn_, her empire will _burn_, the banners and brigands and barracks will _burn_, and she will fall.   
  
Like the boy, the man, his greatest friend, who falls from his horse, and never rises again.   
  
The tablecloth scorches, and the rage ignites the silent monster of magic within him. He stares at the empty chair across from him, and for a moment he sees him. The flash of orange, the sound of laughter, the pride and happiness, this boy. This man. For a moment, he sees him again, drinking from his cup, complimenting his brew, looking at him with warmth rather than weariness.   
  
_ “You’ve been practicing! It tastes perfect. Though, I would expect nothing less from you, my friend.” _   
  
“My friend.” He rasps to the ghost, the image of the boy, the man. The fire in his fingers fades away, and he gazes on.   
  
_ “A tail! What a hilarious thing to say! Why, I would say antlers would suit you better! You know, like a Deer? Oh, ignore me, that was a tasteless joke.” _   
  
“No.” He pleads. “No, never. Never, Ferdinand.” He reaches out, for his hand, just a brush, just a touch. He stops, he listens. He aches.   
  
_ “Together, there is nothing we cannot accomplish.” _   
  
He pulls his hand away from the vision of the man, and he fades as quickly as he came. He draws his hand back to his chin, presses his fingers to his mouth for the slightest moment. He lifts both hands then, and presses them to his face, his eyes, stemming the wetness he feels. He breathes in, he shakes.   
  
“Ferdinand. Oh, Ferdinand...”   
  
The sun sets, and finally he mourns.   
  
  



End file.
